“It’s been a while, Hubert,” Jörg called out to the man’s back. “Do you remember me?”
Hubert stopped what he was doing and the upper half of his body snapped around toward Jörg as he turned to look at him.
The man’s appearance caught Jörg completely off guard. He thought for a moment that the lower half of Hubert’s face had been torn clean off, but when he got a better look, Jörg realized that the man had large scars on both cheeks running down to his lips. It was a wound from an explosion.
In contrast with his pale face, Hubert’s eyes were filled with a bright light. He stared intently at Jörg before saying “Fabrice” in a hoarse voice from deep within his throat. Hearing him speak, Jörg could tell that the man’s injuries extended beyond his face and might even include a crushed larynx.
“Do you have a moment?” Jörg asked, before moving to Hubert’s side.
Hubert remained sitting, looking up at Jörg. “How did you get in here? The door should have been locked.”
“I asked a friend of yours to let me in.”
By friend, Jörg was referring to a fellow French intelligence operative who worked here with Hubert collecting and managing information. When he named the man, Hubert gave an understanding nod, then asked Fabrice if he had been assigned the same job.
“I just came by to check up on you,” Jörg replied. “Though I might be doing the same kind of work in the future.”
“I haven’t seen you since Artois. Have you been on the front this whole time?”
“No, I was injured and sent back soon after. You?”
“I stuck it out at Artois until the third battle, when this happened. Take a look.”
Hubert rapped his knuckles against his right thigh. “Lost everything below the knee. I won’t be playing any more soccer.”
“…I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have more interesting things to keep me occupied.” Hubert returned his gaze to the desk. “You know what I do here, right?”
“You collect information from French intelligence operatives and wire it back to France.”
“That’s right. It’s the perfect job for someone like me, since I can’t move around much anymore. I sit at this desk all day looking through the information, then send the important details back to France. The fellow I work with takes care of the pigeons.”
“I heard that food’s hard to come by here. How are you holding up?”
“As you might expect, we can’t buy anything decent. We pick at the canned foods the intelligence bureau brings in to avoid starving. You didn’t happen to bring anything to eat with you, did you?”
“A little. I left it by the door.”
“Thanks. Any little bit helps.”
“Do you not go outside much?”
“I don’t speak the language, and with this body, well…” Hubert gave a sad smile. “They only speak Dutch and English here. They’re hard languages to learn in the first place, and the way my throat is, I just can’t make the sounds.”
“Don’t you get bored?”
“Not really. I read a lot of books in my spare time. So long as my eyes and arms work, I can do this job. And I have to admit, I really enjoy it. It means that, even with my injuries, I can still keep fighting in my own way.”
Hubert turned back to his desk and started explaining the telegram system to Jörg. He spoke emphatically, talking about it like an engineer describing an invention.
Jörg listened without interrupting, nodding along in agreement, then changed the topic when there was a brief lull in the conversation.
“Say, Hubert. Would you go back to Paris with me?”
“Why?”
“Leave the menial tasks like this to someone else and live a peaceful life at home. Christine is waiting for you.”
Hubert looked hurt. “What do you mean menial?”
“Anyone can do this. It’s just tapping out signals.”
“It gives me purpose!” Hubert’s eyes shone with a fierce intensity. “This is my battlefield!”
“You should be thinking about your sister, not the war. Even if you leave, the war will be over soon. The Central powers are losing.”
“I want to take down Germany with my own two hands. It’s their fault I’m like this.”
“That’s true of everyone who was sent to fight.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t look like came away with any serious injuries.”
“I don’t care if you say stuff like that around me, but don’t say it to anyone else. Even if you can’t see them, every soldier has deep scars in their soul.”
“I know that. But even now, I still wish I had my legs,” Hubert said, averting his gaze. “No matter how little there is or how hard life becomes, when I’m here sending out these messages, I feel fulfilled. It’s the same feeling you get running across the battlefield with a gun. I wouldn’t get this in Paris, would I? Everyone would pity me, and I’d be miserable every day. If that’s my other option, then I’d rather work here and starve.”
“You don’t need to make war your whole life, though.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Take a break, Hubert. You’ve done enough. You don’t need to do any more.”
“Have you lost your sense of pride? Where’s your will to fight for the motherland?”
“Any normal person comes to their senses after a couple days on the front. They start wondering how they ended up there… Right? But saying it out loud would be like denying who they are, so they stay silent until they’re discharged.”